Memories of Emily: Rise of the Atlanteans
Sister Rawth, Booth Jedicy, Country Road, Fifth Grade
Many stories summoned from the ether related worlds, heroes, gatherings, wars, and other momentous events that never existed and only became real when spoke to those who listened, but those narratives remained in the ether, hanging only as long as it took for those who heard to be consumed in the void of the forgotten.
Sister Rawth
Slamming the top of the desk, Sr. Rawth jolted me back to the classroom, where she continued lecturing. At the start of fifth grade, an old box of books rewarded or perhaps cursed me with the discovery of Stephen King. Salem’s Lot and The Shinning fueled many sleepless nights worrying about vampires or my stepfather bludgeoning me with a croquet mallet along with a new compulsion to explore the world of horror, which led to H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe.
Poe infected with so powerful an obsession my mind wandered into his finely crafted words even when trying to pay attention to Sr. Rawth. Reading and rereading Poe bridged the expanse between page and thought in a way so compelling, I wrote a book report on The Tell-Tale Heart but received an F from Sr. Rawth. “That was not on the book list, and you had someone help you because you’re too young to understand Poe.”
Sr. Rawth, more than prior teachers, made clear hell’s destination for existing in an unchristian state, and she often reiterated my need to pray for God’s pity. Much praying occurred, but God never answered and didn’t seem to care when I sat in my room or the basement after being hit by my parents. No matter how much prayer, God never stopped Earl and his cronies. Things got worse, not better, and God’s lack of interest often perplexed and forced my prayer, “Why do you hate me?” He never answered, but Sr. Rawth voiced many answers to the question never asked her. “Faith without works is dead. You need to exert greater effort. God won’t hand you the answers.”
Unable to argue with her, mainly for fear of being hit, I admittedly daydreamed and missed important information, especially in arithmetic. Once Sr. Rawth pulled me outside the classroom for my inability to complete a math assignment. “What is your problem? You don’t pay attention; you don’t care about your work; people might treat you better if you stop acting like a misfit.”
Not knowing what to say, the words escaped, “I’m tired.”
This answer evoked hostility launching a tirade that drowned answering in fear. A crucifix bounced around her neck, clarifying whatever peace and strength that cross provided others held no love for me. Perhaps somewhere in the night, the monster crept into the bedroom and afflicted me with vampirism, causing Sr. Rawth to scream epithets and ridicule the monster her crucifix repelled.
Sr. Rawth walked between the rows of desks during history class, speaking sternly. “After the fall of Rome, the world fell into a dark age. People went back to living in caves and forgot how to build anything more than thatch huts and shacks. Christians saved the world by preserving history. Christian monks labored in scriptoriums rewriting books. The arduous process took place in terrible conditions, and if not for these dedicated monks, all of history would be lost.”
Making her way back to the front of the class, she held her index finger to the air. “Along with rewriting books, Christians saved the world during the dark and Middle Ages by baptizing Charlemagne. Charlemagne was the pagan, heathen King of the Francs and became a Christian after many monks tried to convert him and failed, but one monk stood apart from the rest. He said to Charlemagne, ‘I will show you the strength of my God.’”
Reaching out, she gripped an invisible pole. “The monk then grasped a burning Maypole with his bare hand and held it until his flesh melted off. Seeing this display of faith, Charlemagne felt the Holy Spirit's touch and immediately converted to Christianity and had all his people convert to save their souls. Charlemagne then repelled the invading Islamic hordes, and if not for him, everyone here would be praying to the east every day.”
Her history lessons troubled me, and despite fearing to raise my hand, curiosity stole my common sense. Christians continually saved humanity, yet humanity constantly found itself on the brink of destruction after being saved. The Romans were saved by the Christians, but then the Roman Empire fell, and the world needed saving by the Christians again. Braving participation but lacking the capability to articulate thoughts with exactitude, I asked, “I thought Christians saved Rome; why did it fall apart?”
She rolled her eyes. “If you were a Christian, you would understand people are prone to sin, and the Roman Empire fell because it filled up with sinners.”
“I don’t understand. Did the Christians become sinners?”
“Christians did their best, but other non-Christians lived in the empire. You wouldn’t understand because you’re not a Christian.”
Sr. Rawth verged on losing her temper, which ceased my probing to listen to the Christians discuss their history. At the day's end, Sr. Rawth called me before her desk and wrote a note to my parents, informing them of my insolence. Begging her not to make me take the note evoked her merciful placement of the note in the desk drawer. “Maybe from now on, you won’t be so confrontational in class, so I can avoid giving you this note.”
Booth Jedicy
At dinner one evening, my mother announced, “We’re moving to a new house in August to be closer to the city and work, Bo. We don’t see a reason to keep paying for private school since you lack the capacity for education, Bo.”
My stepfather provided some positive support. “Public schools in Baltimore County have more sports programs, so you might find something that doesn’t require a lot of dexterity, Bo.”
My mother thought the move might be a good opportunity for personal improvement. “Hopefully, you won’t make the mistake of being a liar in public school, Bo.”
Their announcement coincided with Booth Jedicy’s arrival at Do Unto Others in April of 1981, which provided a lull in the ridicule kids aimed at me. Like me, Booth’s parents decided not to baptize him earning a seat in the rear of the congregation next to me. He also had curly hair and didn’t play sports, but Booth had the poor luck of being overweight, and this drew the full wrath of Earl and his cronies.
Nothing caused such pity the way Earl and friends tormented Booth with fat and ugly insults while beating him almost daily. Earl’s treatment of me paled in Booth’s suffering. The last time I saw Booth, he stood against the wall in the schoolyard with Earl and company surrounding him, yelling, "fag" and "fat-ass" while spitting on him. The teachers and nuns stood on the opposite end of the yard and did nothing as Earl kicked Booth in the nuts, turning his face purple. Booth cried and doubled over on the verge of puking as Earl stood pointing and laughing. Everyone just laughed.
Booth stopped attending school just before the summer break motivating the principal to scold the class. “Booth Jedicy left the school because of people bullying him. Picking on people is not tolerated, and those who bully other kids will be punished. Good Christians don’t act this way…”
Watching her admonish the class, the problem of the school became obvious. Teachers lied all the time, allowing Earl and company to torture Booth, which just made clear neither Booth nor I were wanted. We weren’t Christians, we were monsters, and that’s why they did nothing for either of us. As soon as the principal finished speaking and the teacher turned her back, someone would shoot a spitball at me; I could count on it. The torment would never end at Do Unto Others.
Done with nuns, Earl, and all his friends, the idea of a new school rang positively in my revelation of escaping the torment by leaving like Booth. The principal left, and Sr. Rawth turned to write on the chalkboard just as Earl’s warm spitball splattered my neck.
Later that afternoon, while sitting in my room reading The Raven, a desire to leave Do Unto Others mixed with futility washed over me. Surely, leaving would end my pain evermore?
Country Road
Across the street from my parents’ home, a strange path zig-zagged through the cornfield like the field knew to grow this way. I discovered the path sometime in the past and occasionally played there or simply walked the trail to its end. Stepping from the field onto the old dirt road revealed to the left a rusty guardrail with trees beyond, thick briar across, and to the right, more dirt road stretched far into the woods. The road’s end remained a mystery, even after once walking more than two hours. In the final weeks living in Westminster, an unknown compulsion to find the country road’s end made me walk further than in the past.
The summer passed, preparing for the move at the beginning of August, and early one July morning, I began the journey beneath the tree canopy shading the road. The scene always recalled the John Denver song, “Country Roads,” and with no danger of cars or people, the old country road's seclusion summoned thoughts of the Ingles on Little House. I imagined finding an old house or cabin. Taking up residence, I would forage for strawberries or steal corn from the field running adjacent to the road for many acres before ending at the forest edge. Perhaps friendly people lived in the woods nearby, and we would meet while picking corn or berries.
Walking a long time revealed no houses or people before the road bisected a clearing in the woods littered with rusty cars, appliances, and other forms of refuse. The earth reclaimed much of the old junk, half-burying objects, making the glade a wound in the middle of the forest. Sitting on an old tire to rest a moment evoked a fearfulness as the road now held unknown quantities. The trash puncturing the landscape erupted, splitting the road between the way back and toward whoever thoughtlessly dumped garbage.
Memories of The Empire Strikes Back when Luke Skywalker learned his father was Darth Vader pushed me to the verge of tears in a strange lostness. Nothing made sense because nothing resembled or acted the way it purported. Nothing made sense, neither people, nor rules, causing a grind of confusion for feeling something wrong, or I was wrong, or disfigured, or broken. Stretching, coming apart, thoughts couldn’t organize, and my hands shook slightly, reminding me of Cain as I fought the lump.
While warring, a sparrow landed on a rusty, half-buried bumper and watched my struggle a moment before taking to the air. Flying towards home, I followed the sparrow for lack of better direction or answers.
“This is what success looks like. You probably won’t be able to get a job as a manager, but plumbers and mechanics make good money. Maybe you should try to learn a trade like that so you can own a nice house like this in the future.” My stepfather’s career success and wise money management boasting returned my attention to the movers working. Nodding to appease him as the movers carried furniture into the new house from a truck in the driveway, I scanned the new neighborhood of Owings Mills. Unlike the old community of sparse acreage-divided homes, suburbia sprawled with half-acre, personal homeownership heavens surrounded by well-manicured privacy trees and bushes.
Turning back, the movers carried from the truck my mattress covered with an old fitted sheet to hide the urine stains. My camouflage proved insufficient, and all past bedwetting concealment ingenuity failed as the sheet slipped off, exposing the urine stains.
Rubbing his forehead, my stepfather looked down and shook his head. “Why didn’t you say something? It’s obvious you had this problem for some time now.” His vexation turned to my mother. “What the hell makes someone do this?”
My mother glared. “It must be all the soda you drink. Why did you lie about this, Bo?”
I remained silent, not knowing what to say. My stepfather pointed to the mattress as the movers carried it through the jamb of the front door. “Well, this stops here and now, Bo.”
The movers avoided looking at me as my parents solved the bedwetting problem. “No more soda or drinking anything after six o’clock in the evening, Bo.” My stepfather pointed to me.
My mother stepped next to him. “Bo, can we trust that you will be honest, or do we have to monitor your every move?”
Going inside, I sat in my new room where the urine-stained mattress leaned against the wall, mocking me. Humiliation seared my face as my eyes closed, fighting the lump.
Weeks of unpacking and moving boxes to the new home’s basement followed the move, and while stacking boxes downstairs, the lid of a box marked "National Geographic" popped open revealing Penthouse and Hustler magazines. Thumbing a magazine told the fascinating narrative of the nude farm girl who spent her days performing chores in the barn and tending to agriculture. No farm girls like this worked the neighboring farms in Westminster. “Hey, hurry up. I don’t want this taking all day.” My stepfather yelled from the top of the stairs causing me to slam shut the box and run upstairs.
Shortly after the magazines' discovery, my stepfather gave his version of the “sex talk” by dropping a box of old Family Life Encyclopedias on my bedroom floor. “If you have any questions about sex, you can find the answers in these books.” Fearing this sex talk resulted from him learning of my magazine discovery, I expected an ass beating or lecture, but he left the room. He likely saw the utility in the old encyclopedias just before tossing them in the trash, causing the coincidence.
Reading encyclopedias lacked the enjoyment of the magazines that clearly showed human sexual interaction, less the diagrams, captions, and arrows. The encyclopedias lined the bookshelves for lack of interest and necessity since kids at school, books, and television already provided sex education.
The week before sixth grade, my parents worked while I lounged amongst the boxes in the basement, perusing this new world of literature. Unlike the sex described in some books, these magazines provided unfiltered, raw sexuality even fiction books lacked. The feeling of being dirty and deceived struck me but not enough to stop reading.
Fifth Grade
A year of bloody conflict waged as the Atlanteans reclaimed the world. Driving the Az from the earth exacted a tremendous cost in lives, resulting in endless planetary defense. Constant incursions taxed resources, and unable to hold out forever, I used my genius to build a multiwarhead, nuclear fusion bomb, the Nevermore. The bomb of bombs. Pulling the sheet revealed the missile to Emily, but her face fell in dismay. “This is where all our ideals for peace and prosperity lead us. Annihilation.”
“Emily, it’s them or us.” I dropped the sheet in disappointment.
“Are you sure?” She turned, folding her arms.
“You know our situation. If we don’t act, we won’t survive.”
“I know, but the destruction of another species, even as it threatens our own, troubles me.”
I held her shoulders. “Emily, I understand, but there is a right and wrong, and that which is wrong must be corrected or stamped out. The Az are wrong.”
She turned and held me. “We thought we were right about the humans; how can we be sure we’re right now? What do we really know of the Az, and are they truly the problem, or is there something we don’t know?”
“Perhaps we can’t be sure, but we know oppression and tyranny lead only to destruction. It is not our hand launching this weapon; it is the hand of the tyrant. Nevermore shall the Az enslave us. Nevermore shall our people die at their hands. Live free or die!”
She nodded in sadness only a true defender of life could feel when destroying her enemy.
The earth’s armada filled the darkness of space at the edge of the Az solar system as enemy vessels swarmed from the planet, forming a barrier to incursion. Emily’s ship spiraled into the enemy masses as I waited in the rear of our forces. She was a spectacular war machine.
Slowly, our forces tore a hole in the Az resistance, killing many kids. Not in vain! I flipped the light speed switch on my cruiser, jerking the ship into astronomical speeds. No longer moving through space, the universe stood still as I moved through the ticks of the clock.
Jerking the ship again, the retro-thrusters slowed flight, revealing the Az world below, mostly undefended, making the upper atmosphere entrance easy. Laser burning a few meaningless fighters, I maneuvered to the optimal position to launch the Nevermore. Appearing before me, a lone enemy ship floated in the Az sky, barring my mission. My radio crackled with a familiar voice. “So, we meet again.”
Earl! Blood boiled with thoughts of dead adults, Isabel, Marlene, and the orphaned earth. A great dogfight ensued.
Deadly photons burned around my ship as his faster alien ship outmaneuvered mine. The concentrated light blasted the hull as Earl’s voice taunted me. “It’s all over, fag. Once I finish you, I’m going to kill all those silly kids. I’m going to capture Emily; yes, I know all about her, and I’m going to make her my slave and torture her.”
Beams of light rocked my craft, sending the ship flat-spinning out of control, rushing blood from my head as G-forces blurred consciousness…
Trapped in darkness cautiously treading pitch
Seeking light to illume eyes and enrich
Stepping light, hiding from the beast in dark
My steps like thunder struck and seemed to hark
To what thing pounded fast my blood and heart
Monster gnashing teeth in predation’s art
Waiting to grind flesh and bones to gruel
My hands searched the dark, driven by fear’s fuel
I stopped, feeling softness, hearing her dream
“Follow me to the path for you to gleam”
Pulling me through the truth forsaking
Finding the knob with violence shaking
Lighting the darkness as she swung the door
Rushing through the jamb into nevermore
Blocking the door holding her near to me
Kissing her, forewarning the fear beastly
Locking away it’s gnashing rejection
Hiding myself deep in her affection
…shaking off the sensation and gaining control, I evaded laser fire, jockeying for position to launch the Nevermore as the ship’s shields failed. Just when all seemed lost, a laser from the lower atmosphere struck the belly of Earl’s ship. An Az spacecraft raced from the surface as another familiar voice crackled across the radio. “Simone says, ‘I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me. Now, let’s blow this thing and go home!’”
And with that said, Marlene, the philosopher warrior, unleashed a whirlwind of photonic devastation tearing off Earl’s wing and spiraling him to the planet’s surface as I set the fusion bomb for three seconds and launched the tool of mass destruction. “From all the kids, dead adults, Marlene, Emily, and most of all from me personally!”
The Az world ignited, detonating into a volley of meteors as we raced away. Chunks of the planet barely missed our ships just before escaping into super light speed. We found our way back to Emily and the Atlanteans. The Az were dead, and the war ended.
Returning home, Marlene told us of her capture and imprisonment. The melee unleashed on the Az fleet distracted her captors, and she escaped. She and the Army of Simone would become legend.
A massive thermonuclear fire raged where the Az once lived, and by my calculations, the stellar fire would burn for millions of years. The origin of pain and misery formed a brilliant star I named Emily. Without her, all would have been lost.
Days passed, celebrating and mourning losses. Emily and I looked across a barren war-ravaged world. The sun shined as we held hands at the start of a new day, a new beginning, and the close of an era of misery.
Elementary school finally ended.